The Dead Man: Face of Evil (5 page)

Matt was fortunate that he was taken to a university hospital, not so much for their medical expertise and wide resources, but for their selfishness and greed.

The university was known in the scientific community for offering lucrative salaries to researchers in return for retaining the patents on anything that anybody created or discovered, accidentally or intentionally, while on their payroll.

The university was also known among pharmaceutical companies, military contractors, equipment manufacturers, and third world dictatorships as a shameless whore that would sell those patents to whoever offered the best prices, the biggest endowments, the most endowed escorts, the highest bribes, and the most decadent perks.

So it was in the university's financial interest, over the three short days that followed Matt's admittance to the ER, to downplay reports of his miraculous rebirth and to keep him, and whatever lucrative secrets his body might hold, all to themselves.

The hospital's public affairs director did an excellent job deflecting press inquiries by not exactly denying the facts, but by pointing out how ridiculous and unbelievable they were, implying that it was all either an elaborate hoax or a big mistake.

The university was helped in their efforts by Matt's refusal to grant any interviews, take any calls, see any visitors, or allow any information about his condition to be shared with the media.

But most of all, the university benefitted from the media's short attention span, their insatiable hunger for news, and the timely discovery of video of a teenage Disney starlet enthusiastically engaged in a naked three-way with a couple of shockingly tumescent Nick at Nite boy toys.

Life after death couldn't compete with celebrity jailbait sex, so Matthew Cahill was forgotten even faster than he'd been discovered.

But not by the doctors or the scientific community.

They all wanted to take a sample of something, anything, from Matthew Cahill.

Unfortunately for them, they would have to make do with what they got from him in the first few hours after his arrival in the hospital. Because after that, as he rapidly regained his strength and became fully aware of his situation, he refused to allow any further blood tests, or X-rays, or CT scans, and rejected virtually all medical treatment beyond IV fluids the first day or so, and stitches to the cut the coroner made.

Dr. Travis and all the other doctors on the team, now numbering well over a dozen, strenuously objected to Matt's decision, warning him of all sorts of dire outcomes. But having survived the most dire of all outcomes, Matt was not swayed.

So on the morning of the fourth day, the doctors went off to conspire with hospital administrators and left him alone in his room to ponder his strange fate.

The last thing he remembered was looking over his shoulder and seeing that wave of snow closing in on him. And then he woke up in the ER.

He didn't much care how, or why, he'd managed to survive. He certainly didn't consider it a miracle. If anything, it was a cruel joke that his demise was quick, painless, and revocable, while his wife's demise was comparatively slow, unbearably agonizing, and utterly final.

Where was her reprieve?

Why was he spared the suffering and finality of death when she was not?

He would gladly have traded his survival for hers, only nobody had offered him that opportunity.

But Matt was a practical man, not one for pondering the philosophical meaning of things. He took events as they came.

And the fact was, he was glad to be alive, to feel the warmth of the sun and the light breeze coming through the open window.

He didn't care how it had happened.

He simply accepted that it had.

And all he wanted to do now was get on with life as if his death had never happened.

And to see Rachel again. He found himself longing to be in her arms, to feel her warmth, to hold her close as he fell asleep.

As he thought about that, and how comforting and safe it would feel, he drifted into a light sleep, waking up again moments later when he sensed someone else in the room.

It was another doctor, standing at the foot of the bed, looking at his chart.

"I thought I told you that I'm done," Matt said. “You can take that chart with you when you go."

The doctor looked up, and Matt saw that he wasn't Travis or any of the others on the team.

But Matt knew him.

Even without the old-style reflector on his head and the enormous stethoscope around his neck. It was in the mischief in his eyes and the jauntiness of his pose.

It was Janey's doctor.

From hell.

"Aren't you supposed to be dead?" The doctor grinned, toying with his stethoscope. “Should I listen for a heartbeat?"

Matt remembered the horrible things that had happened when the doctor listened to Janey's heart.

But that was a nightmare.

Which meant…

"You're not real," Matt said.

"What about all the rest?" The doctor said. “This hospital room, the sunlight through the window, or you in that bed?"

There was something unnaturally still about the air. The window was open, but the drapes weren't fluttering in the breeze. Matt could see flecks of dust floating in place in the streams of sunlight.

"All of that will be out there when I open my eyes," Matt said. “But you won't be. You're nothing but a cartoon character in my nightmare."

"Has it occurred to you that perhaps it's the other way around?"

"That doesn't make any sense."

"And what happened to you does? C'mon, Matt. You were consumed by an avalanche, swept off a cliff, and buried in snow for three months. But here you are, alive and well, not a scratch on you. We both know that's impossible. So what does that tell you?"

The doctor from hell had a point, one that made more sense than everything else that had happened to Matt over the last three days. Matt was nothing if not pragmatic.

"I'm dead," Matt said.

"Don't look so sad," the doctor said. “Death has its advantages. For one thing, there's no need for pricey medical insurance."

"What are you talking about?" Matt said. “I don't give a shit about insurance."

"You may not, but we do." It was a woman's voice, and it came from the foot of the bed.

Matt turned to her. She was a young, short-haired woman with glasses, wearing a crisp white blouse and a tight skirt and holding a file folder to her bosom.

"We are not in the business of giving away medical care, Mr. Cahill. That wouldn't be much of a business, would it? You left your job at B. Barer and Sons the day before your accident and, as of that moment, lost your company medical coverage. You are uninsured. That means you are financially responsible for all the costs that you have incurred since being—how should I put this?—disinterred. The cost is well into six figures."

"Who are you?" Matt asked.

"I told you when I came in. Janet Dorcott, senior vice president of hospital administration. This inability to focus is yet another reason why you should heed your doctor's sound advice and remain here until we know the true nature of your medical condition."

"I'm dead," Matt said.

"You would be if not for the heroic efforts of our physicians and the resources of this hospital. But as I said, that all comes with a price."

"Now this really is a nightmare." Matt turned to the doctor, but he was gone. In fact, so was the strange stillness. The drapes were fluttering in the light breeze again.

That led him to conclude that the conversation with the doctor wasn't real. But that this conversation with Dorcott was actually happening.

Which meant he'd been having a waking nightmare.

That simple realization was scarier to Matt than anything the freakish doctor or this irritating woman had said.

And she was
still
talking.

"However, with a little cooperation from you, we are willing to waive a substantial portion of the costs of your past and continued care. All we ask is that you stay here for a few more days and that you agree to ongoing, and exclusive, participation in some simple, and perhaps minimally invasive, testing to maintain your good health and to ascertain what happened to you."

She flashed a smile so forced, so synthetic, that for a moment he wondered if he was dreaming again, or if she might be some kind of android.

Her smile couldn't hide what her offer really meant.

Imprisonment. They'd never let him out, at least not until they understood how he survived death and they could replicate it in a blue pill or an expensive procedure that they could profit from.

He was feeling fine and didn't much care how it was possible.

What Matt needed now was to get back to his life, to center himself.

He needed to chop some wood.

"I'm leaving," he said. “Right now."

Matt threw off his sheets, yanked the IV out of his arm, and stood up.

Dorcott looked at the blood trickling down his arm like it was gold.

Who knew what secrets, what pharmaceutical breakthroughs, were dripping uselessly to the floor?

It reminded her of what her preacher said to the boys he caught whacking off, about the unforgiveable sin of wasted seed.

If God wasn't happy about that, imagine how pissed off he was about
this
.

Almost as enraged as the regents, not to mention the hospital accounting department, would be with her if she let Matt leave.

The fact was, Matt hadn't signed a single piece of paper since he was admitted.

The university had no claim on him, no clear title to his blood and tissue or to the billions of dollars that could be derived from them.

Then again, if he walked out without paying his bills, and a few years down the road they made discoveries based on what little of his bodily fluids they had, maybe they could argue that what they were doing was simply recouping their debt, plus interest.

Or maybe not.

Janet thought about tearing her shirt open, screaming rape, and calling security. The idea kind of excited her, but she let it go.

"You can't just walk out of here," she said. “You have a moral, ethical, and legal obligation to pay us."

Matt looked at the blood seeping out of his arm and found it as reassuring as the coroner had found it shocking.

Dead men don't bleed.

"Send me the bill," he said and walked past her to the door, his naked ass peeking out of the opening in the back of his gown.

As soon as Matt left the room, Janet Dorcott did three things. She called the lab to collect the drops of blood on the floor, she called Dr. Travis to fill out a commitment order, and she called security, telling them to stop Matthew Cahill from leaving.

Matt took the stairs down to the lobby. When he emerged, he was stunned to see Rachel sitting on a couch, which she'd turned into her own little encampment. There were blankets, pillows, and fast-food containers everywhere. She'd obviously been waiting there for days.

He smiled at her. “Could I get a ride?"

It took her a moment to realize that yes, it really was Matthew Cahill standing in front of her with his butt hanging out.

She leapt from the couch and ran into his arms, nearly tackling him.

They embraced, and then she stepped back to look at him again, as if to confirm she wasn't seeing things.

"It really is you," she said, tears streaming down her cheeks. “When they said on the news that you were alive, I didn't believe it."

"I still don't," he said and gestured to the couch. “Were you living here?"

"I came here as soon as I heard. I tried to see you, to call you, but they wouldn't let me. So I planted myself here. There was no way I was going to leave here without you."

He looked over her shoulder and saw two beefy security guards marching their way.

Rachel followed his gaze, then moved away from Matt as the men approached.

"You're going back to your room," one of the guards said to him.

"You can't hold me here," Matt said. “I'm not a prisoner."

"Yes, we can. Your doctor has determined that you are delusional and a threat to yourself and others," the guard said. “He's having you committed to the university mental hospital."

After his waking nightmare, Matt couldn't argue with the doctor's diagnosis, but he doubted that the commitment was for his own good as much as the university's. They would do everything they could to keep him as a scientific asset to poke, prod, and maybe even dissect.

Matt balled his hands into fists. He didn't know if he could take them both, but he was certainly capable of messing them up bad, despite having been dead for a few months. He felt as strong and as capable as he had the day he died.

And that knowledge made him smile.

He
wanted
to fight.

Bring it on, assholes.

The guards could see the change in his expression and realized that Matt might actually be crazy.

Scary crazy.

But before the guards could make a move, or Matt could throw his first punch, Rachel stepped between them and sprayed the guards with Mace.

The guards squealed and staggered back, rubbing their eyes. As they did, she kneed one, and then the other, hard in the groin, doubling them over in agony.

"Fuck you," she said to them, then turned to Matt. “Let's go home."

Their first stop was Costco. And, honestly, who wouldn't want to make that their first stop after resurrection?

Matt hid under a blanket in the backseat of her car, just in case an APB had gone out for a crazy man in a hospital gown, while Rachel went in and bought him clothes, a pair of shoes, and, at his request, two hot dogs and a Coke.

When she got back, he devoured the meal and then changed into the clothes while she pretended to avert her eyes. She was astonished by his physique, not because he was so buff (which he was), but because he looked as good as he had before the avalanche.

If anything, he looked
even better
.

Matt got into the passenger seat beside her and saw tears rolling down her cheeks. He wiped them away.

"What's wrong?"

"It's happiness, you idiot. I lost you. And here you are. As if nothing happened. With ketchup on your chin. It's unbelievable."

Unbelievable.

Impossible.

He had a feeling he'd be hearing those words a lot, and he was already tired of them.

"I don't care how I survived. I just did. I don't want to try to think about it or figure it out. I want to go on with my life, as it was, as if nothing has changed. Can you do that for me?"

She nodded, took a napkin, and dabbed the ketchup off of his chin. “Whatever you want."

"What I want most of all is to be with you," he said. “To have the night together that we lost."

"Is this really happening?" she said. “Tell me I'm not dreaming."

He wished he could, but he wasn't entirely sure himself. So instead of saying anything, he kissed her.

It felt real enough for them both.

She took him back to her small house and directly to bed, where they made love, nonstop, for hours.

Neither one of them had ever felt such an overwhelming need to be with another person. It wasn't love, and it wasn't lust. It was something primal, an insatiable compulsion to couple, for the physicality, for the connection, for the release, for the proof of life.

For Matt, each time he entered her, in whatever position they were in, he went as deep and as hard as he could, clutching her as close as possible, desperate to feel her tightness, to taste her sweat, to hear her cries of longing and ecstasy.

And when he came, with such thunderous force that he could barely breathe, it reaffirmed not only that he was a man, and that he was alive, but that he was joined with another human being, that he was connected to this earth, to nature, to the circle of life.

He was a man, of flesh and blood, and he was inside her.

Not surprisingly, Rachel was having almost exactly the same thought. But for her, the carnal experience had a very different meaning. She wanted him deep inside her, to fill her with his masculinity and strength, so she could know with utter certainty that he was alive and he was hers.

With each thrust, he confirmed to her his physical existence, that he was really there. And with each of her breathtaking, seemingly endless orgasms, she reaffirmed their connection, and the power of the love that brought him back to her against all logic or reason.

She wasn't dreaming.

He was a man, of flesh and blood, and he was hers.